


Just Another Day Off

by theblasphemouscontessa



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Family Dynamics, Loving Parents, Strained Relationships, code switching on steroids my friends, i am nursey and nursey is me, kill the missing black father trope and let it remain dead, mixed race nursey, muslim nursey, non-binary nursey, nursey goes by his middle name with family, nursey swtiches what name he thinks of himself as, pansexual nursey, present parents, you'll notice the pattern
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblasphemouscontessa/pseuds/theblasphemouscontessa
Summary: Derek Malik "Nursey" Nurse has never once celebrated Christmas in his life. And he's not going to start now. His plan for the two week winter vacation? Well honestly, mostly just sleep a lot. But not through fajr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about what Muslim!Nursey does over Christmas break as well explore a bit of his identity when it comes to all of his cultures and the constant code switching that goes along with just existing as a mixed race, non-Christian, queer person in even the most liberal, diverse, and accepting of places. This is an instance of I am Nursey and Nursey is me.
> 
> i can be found at itcomesbetweenus.tumblr.com if you want more in depth information than is available in the notes section of a fic.
> 
> Explanation of Arabic terms and Islamic traditions in the end notes. which will be edited and added to if anyone expresses continued confusion.

Derek never really understood that two week break at the end of December. He knew Christians had a holiday in there - he would have to be completely ignorant not to have noticed the entire world freaking out for several months straight not to know - but he was pretty sure that holiday was only one day. Or maybe it was two? It’s entirely possible that there were twelve days of Christmas but he was like 70% sure that was just a metaphor for . . . something. And he knew a lot of non-Christian people appreciated an excuse to buy and bake excessively without being judged. He also knew there was a Jewish holiday that fell around the same time, but it didn’t always land on the guaranteed days off the way the Christian one did and the only people who paid much attention to it were the ones who actually celebrated it religiously and the people trying way too hard to pretend to be inclusive. Any way, Derek knew the official stated reason for those days off and the borderline unconstitutional actual reason for those days off. What he didn’t understand was what he was supposed to do with them.

Staying at Samwell all alone while the entire rest of the hockey team went home for Christmas was too depressing and he did actually enjoy spending time with his family. Might as well take advantage of some time with no pending assignments to catch up with Mama and coo over his bent l khet she would be talking and walking soon if she weren’t already. Maybe if he were lucky he might even get to spend time with his father, he missed having low-stakes philosophical discussions with someone who actually understood where he was coming from.

Okay then, Derek was going home for not-Christmas.

“Malik,” Derek’s sister called as she waved to him. The moment he stepped off the train he became Malik, code switching was nothing new for him, he went by two names at Samwell already - three when he actually showed up for MSA meetings - and Malik was a name he was comfortable with, a name that came with expectations he already knew. “Malik!” She called again as if not sure he had heard her the first time. Even if she hadn’t been calling for him, Malik would have found her almost immediately. Zhariya was wearing a pale pink pashmina, an Eid gift from Malik several years ago for her first Ramadan after taking hijab that made her stand out in any crowd.

“Zhariya, asalamu alaikum,” he greeted her with a hug.

“Walaikum asalaam,” she returned with a fond smile.

“You do know that I know my way home from here, right?” Malik teased lightly even as he linked his arm with hers and walked toward the exit. 

“As if Mama would let me come home if I didn’t meet you, or Walid for that matter.” Ribbing aside, Malik really was happy that Zhariya was the first familiar face he saw in the city. He had always been close with his sister and felt the loss of her keenly, first when she married and then when he left home for school.

“Ya habibti, you just couldn’t wait to see me.”

“Yrja akhy 'ant wahid 'ann yaftaqid li. I can tell you’re homesick,” she leaned her head briefly on his shoulder before swiftly sneaking a peck of a kiss on his cheek. Zhariya allowed Malik to feign annoyance as she laughed. “Don’t lie to me, habibi. Your sister knows you best.” As they boarded the subway, a middle aged man seated near the door grumbled something that may or may not have been directed toward the pair.

Rather than give it any more thought than it deserved, Nursey shrugged off the anger he could feel building and gripped the pole in front of the seat his sister had taken. It still felt strange to be able to see over her head, and now that he stood while she sat he positively towered over Zhariya. Though there was the obvious upside to being so large - no one ever tried to pick a fight with him off the ice - he didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable knowing his very presence and existence instilled an instinctual fear in people.

“Bahija will be excited to see you,” Zhariya interrupted his thoughts with chatter about her little daughter. “She has learned to say alkhal and might even decide to walk for us soon.”

“Oh good, I hope I’m still here to see it.”

“In sha Allah,” Zhariya murmured automatically and “in sha Allah,” Malik agreed absently. “How is Omar?”

“Oh mash’Allah, he is well. His practice is flourishing, and I think he is happier now that we are closer to Mama and Walid he knows it was hard on me at first being so far from them with Bahija. But mash’Allah we have more support now.” Zhariya gushed, happy for the excuse to talk about her beloved husband. Malik had always liked Omar, he was hard-working and respectful and always had time for Malik when he had been an awestruck child before Omar and Zhariya even became engaged.

Just then they reached their stop and Malik grabbed his bag clearing enough room for his sister to comfortably exit the car in the same movement. It was an unconscious habit by this point for Malik to make sure there was at least a body’s width of space between his sister - or mother, cousin, or friend - and any strangers on the street. There had never actually been an incident Malik had had to respond to involving any of the admittedly few covered women in his circle but that didn’t mean he was prepared to let his guard down and allow one to happen when he was able to prevent it. Sometimes it felt like Malik had always been a D-man long before he learned any skills on the ice.

They walked the few blocks to the Nurse residence without issue and Malik felt tension he hadn’t noticed he had been holding release from his shoulders the moment the door closed behind him. “Mama,” he cried happily, allowing the woman who waited just inside to kiss both of his cheeks repeatedly. The woman who embraced him was uncommonly tall, just under six feet, and the most beautiful person Malik had ever seen. Both children had her nose and jawline though Malik favored her more in the set of his mouth and slope of her forehead and took after his father in almost every other feature. Zhariya had overall softer rounder features and except for the nose and chin resembled the women in their father’s family. 

“Malik! Habibi you are too thin. I thought you said they were feeding you at that school. How they can expect you to take down enemies when I expect you to faint at any moment. Sit. Eat.” Malik’s mother, Salma, led him to the kitchen and sat him at the table where a spiced rice dish involving lamb and olives waited for him. Another portion was served out presumably for Zhariya who was leaning over the playpen set up against the kitchen island.

“Ya Mama.” Malik smiled as he began to dig in. Being a college athlete meant he was always hungry and there was not a person living who has eaten his mother’s cooking and delayed a next bite. He could kiss the baby when he was done. Malik watched his mother move around the kitchen while he ate. It had only been a few weeks since he last saw her but seeing her dressed for strangers in the crowd of a hockey game was different than seeing her as he knew her all his life. Here, safely inside their home, she wore yoga leggings and a baggy, lightweight top that did not sit straight on her shoulders and kept her feet bare. Her hair had been freshly twisted and was piled on top of her head and she had modest gold studs in her ears, she was either wearing very subtle expertly applied make-up or Nursey needed to know what moisturizer she used, overall she looked like any housewife on the street headed for a light workout. Casual, comfortable, carefree, and beautiful. But they were the only ones who ever saw her like that. If any of the boys on the hockey team wanted to meet her they would see her in loose skirts and a stiff top or an embroidered abaya, her hair carefully covered by one of her multitude of scarves.

Zhariya sat across from him and began to eat her own serving of dinner, carefully sharing with Bahija. Now that they were inside, Malik saw that Zhariya had changed her hairstyle since the last time he saw her. Her usually smooth, high bun had been replaced with a multitude of braids twisted and wrapped into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Nursey rubbed the fuzzy, short cropped hairs on the back of his head wondering how he would look with a similar style. Salma too reached out to rub his head.

“You should let your sides grow out,” she sighed wistfully. “You have such nice hair, mash’Allah, should let it grow some.”

“Maybe, Mama. In sha Allah maybe this year.” But Nursey doubted it, letting his hair grow out even a little was a slippery slope. Malik turned his attention toward his niece instead. Bahija had grown in the weeks since he had seen her last, her hair now curled past her shoulders and her bright eyes seemed more focused and curious than he remembered. Babies understood things long before they were able to communicate properly, she was probably absorbing everything around her.

“Ya habibti. You are getting so big, can you say ‘alkhal’?” He cooed at the baby, moving to lift her as she giggled and reach out for him. “Oh, you are such a pretty baby, yeah warda you learn some new words for uncle?” Predictably, the baby didn’t answer she just giggled and wiggled as Malik covered her small, round face in noisy kisses. Malik continued to play with the little girl, making airplane noises as he swung her around the room and gently tossed her in the air. A flash caught his attention and he turned to see his mother aiming her phone at them as if she had been recording the entire encounter. “Ma,” he groaned, embarrassed.

“Oh no, habibi, don’t stop on my account.” Salma teased lightly. The sound of the front door opening and closing must have been missed in the playful noise from the kitchen because a tall Arab man stood leaning on the doorframe behind Salma. He was smiling indulgently at the scene, scarf and overcoat still on over his expensive and obviously tailored suit.

“Walid, asalamu alaikum,” Malik greeted as he moved towards him for a hug, baby still on his hip. Malik’s father quietly returned the greeting, adding a kiss to the top of Bahija’s head.

“Jidd!” she cooed, speaking a recognizable word for the first time since Malik had been home.

“It is almost time for maghrib, do you have wudoo?” Ihab, Malik’s father, asked the room. Salma kissed her husband on the cheek as her children left to wash up for prayers. Zhariya told Malik that her husband, Omar, usually made it over to pray Maghrib with the family and then they went home to their little apartment down the street.

True to her words, Omar arrived just as the adhan was being called. “Malik will lead us today,” Ihab announced as if they had discussed it beforehand. Malik remembered the first time his father had told him to lead the family in prayers, he had been twelve and Ihab told him to lead prayers and collect his reward for acting as imam. Proud and nervous, the little boy he had been carefully recited his favorite ayat and bowed, internally repeating his memorized phrases, he had been happy to have completed the entire ritual correctly only to be told by his father that he had not held sujood long enough. This time, his form and recitation were beyond reproach.

After only a few minutes of socializing Zhariya and Omar left with Bahija and Ihab and Salma disappeared into the sitting room leaving Derek to take his abandoned bag upstairs and decide how to unpack alone.

Yeah, this was way better than staying at Samwell alone.

**Author's Note:**

> "Asalamu alaikum" is a traditional islamic greeting between two muslims who know they are speaking to another muslim no matter what their mother tongue. It basically translates to "peace be upon you" the correct response of "walaikum asalaam" basically means "may you also have peace". It is considered very rude not to return the greeting though a simple "Salaam" is accepted but it's kinda like if someone says "hello, it's so lovely to see you again" and all you say back is "hey". Also if someone is not muslim and wants to greet a muslim politely simply saying "salaam" with their hand pressed to their chest is the best way to do it.
> 
> I chose to portray the distant relationship between the Nurse children and their father by having them refer to him by the formal Walid instead of baba which is what most Arabic speaking children call their father in private only using Walid if formal situations or for introductions. In contrast the children have a close affectionate relationship to their mother and call her mama (which in most of the Arabic speaking world is the equivalent of "mommy") unless speaking to an unrelated adult which is when they call her Walida. 
> 
> So basically Walid = Father, Baba = Daddy, Walida = Mother and Mama = Mommy. bent I khet means "niece" but more specifically it means "daughter of my sister" and "alkhal" is "uncle" but specifically it's for the maternal uncle in Arabic much like most Chinese dialects words like cousin, aunt/uncle, and niece/nephew don't really exist. You would say "brother of my father" or "son of my mother's brother" or "husband of my father's sister" etc to denote exactly how you are related to someone.
> 
> "Habibi" is an affectionate nickname for a male child and "habibti" is the female equivalent. It would be used between siblings, very very very close friends, or from a parent to a child. Casual acquaintances and romantic couples would not use these as terms of endearment (it can be used as an insult to belittle someone and imply you see them as a child if you do not have permission to use these terms and do so anyway though modern culture is a bit more relaxed about it).
> 
> I've seen people complain about fic writers inserting random phrases and sentences in another language for that ~~*~ exotic flavor ~*~~ but in my family at least we switch languages mid sentence. It is not uncommon for one of us to ask a question in German and receive and answer in French or forget a word in Spanish and use it's equivalent in Arabic and most of the children playing together at the mosques speak different languages at home and a garbled creole frankenlanguage only they understand around each other.
> 
> Hijab is the head covering that some muslim women choose to wear in public. Abaya is a loose overdress many women who cover their hair choose to wear for added modesty.
> 
> yrja akhy 'ant wahid 'ann yaftaqid li = oh please, brother, it's you that missed me
> 
> in sha Allah = God willing. any time anyone plans anything they tack an in sha Allah on the end because you can't do anything unless god wills it, if god does not want you to make basmati rice for dinner all the planning and promising in the world wont make it happen it's part superstition, part prayer, part habit to say when speaking of anything in the future tense.
> 
> mash'Allah = God willed it. similarly when ever happens, especially something good it's customary to give thanks to god for allowing such good fortune every time it is mentioned. When a parent brags on a child, or a person notices another attractive person, or someone accomplishes something that someone might feel jealous of people say mash'Allah as a little reminder that everything they have and everything they do is because of god.
> 
> warda = rose or flower. can be a girl's name is also an affectionate pet name for a child. it would be used similar to an adult calling a child sweetie, honey, sugar, cutie pie, pumpkin etc.


End file.
